‘Twas but a hint of Spring—for still The atmosphere was sharp and chillSave where the genial sunshine smoteThe shoulders of my overcoat,And o’er the snow beneath my feetLaid spectral fences down the street.

My shadow, even, seemed to beElate with some new buoyancy,And bowed and bobbed in my advanceWith trippingest extravagance,And, when the birds chirpt out some- where,It seemed to wheel with me and stare.

Above I heard a rasping stir—And on a roof the carpenterWas perched, and prodding rusty leavesFrom out the choked and dripping eaves—And some one, hammering about,Was taking all the windows out.

Old scraps of shingles fell beforeThe noisy mansion’s open door;And wrangling children raked the yard,And labored much, and laughed as hard,And fired the burning trash I smeltAnd sniffed again—so good I felt!